


A Return To A Past Left Behind

by afteriwake



Series: A Different Path [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is reluctantly pulled back into consulting by a case it appears is being masterminded by James Moriarty, whom he sent to jail when he was eight years old. The thrill is still there, a thrill he has missed since he retired from consulting at the age of seventeen, and at the case's end the question becomes whether this was a one time thing or a new path for his life to take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a new series that I started yesterday while I had an entire day off without access to the internet. The entire series answers a **sherlockmas** prompt I left ("Sherlock; AU where he solved the Carl Powers case when he was eight and stopped Moriarty before he ever became a threat") except, you know, this is Moriarty we're talking about so he's still going to be a threat. This particular story answers two specific prompts: from my prompts at **sherlockmas** this answers the "Sherlock, Molly; first meeting" prompt and it is also my "Case Wall" bingo prompt fill at **land_deduction**.

It had taken nine months, but Sherlock Holmes was most insistent, and eventually a pushy child can wear on anyone, especially a Detective Inspector with pushy children of his own. DI Jackson had finally listened to what a then eight-year-old Sherlock had insisted and looked into it. When it turned out he was right, that Carl Powers had indeed been murdered, Scotland Yard had thrown everything they could at the case. Even then, they still needed Sherlock's help. The idea of a child having insight into the case baffled most people outside the Yard, but inside the Yard they realized his help was invaluable. Within a matter of weeks they caught the killer, a teenager named Jim Moriarty, and he was tried and convicted.

Sherlock was praised for what he had done, and soon the whole country wanted to know about the crime solving prodigy. There had been an intense media spotlight shone on him, and while he enjoyed the thrill of solving a case he didn't appreciate all the attention. That hadn't been his goal when he had helped; the case had been intriguing and soon he had gotten frustrated that the police hadn't seen what was so glaringly obvious to him. After the case was solved he would get some of the Detective Inspectors asking for his advice on a case, first on the record and then later completely off the books. At one point Sherlock actually entertained the idea of being a consultant of some sort when he was older, or solving crimes for other people. He thought he would like to do that a lot when he got older. 

As time moved on, though, he found he didn't like the intrusion. His life had already been one of isolation, and it just got worse the more the business of solving crimes intruded. His school work was suffering and he found he was losing his passion for it when he went into his later teenage years. He began to dabble in drugs, finding that they helped numb the whirring thoughts and allowed him to escape for a time. It was only a matter of time before his family found out, though, and he was given an ultimatum: straighten up or leave home and flounder on your own. He decided to go to rehab and get straightened out once he left school, a month into his gap year. He hated every moment of it, but it served its purpose.

While he was there he thought long and hard about the life he wanted to have. In the end he decided to step away from crime solving for a time, see what else there was to life. He was incredibly intelligent; surely there had to be other things he could do in his life. He continued with the rest of his gap year, traveling and seeing what else there was in life. He actually spent a full other year traveling, and when he returned to London he entered university, a year after most other students did. There were times it bored him, that he felt it didn't stimulate his mind nearly as much as the challenging cases he had solved in his youth, but it was the normal thing to do and he had decided he was going to try his hand at being normal. Once he graduated he was at a loss for what to do. He had a dual major degree in both biology and chemistry, and he could do a few different things with it, but in the end he decided to go into research. Discovering new things should surely fill the space in him that hadn't been filled, that had been empty for quite a few years. And so he settled into a life that was decent enough but not really all that fulfilling.

It had been quite a few years later when his life changed. He had drifted from one research facility to the next, helping at various stages in the projects that were going on. He was between projects at the moment and at a local hospital, working on his own projects. He was lucky in that he had made an acquaintance at St. Bart's working on one project and was allowed to use the equipment at that hospital whenever he wanted. It had been a quiet day and he was hard at work when the door to his preferred lab opened up. He lifted his head up from his microscope and looked at the man standing there. He did what he did every time he looked at a person, something he had done since childhood. This man was obviously involved in law enforcement, he deduced after a moment, and that was his life. He wasn't in a pleasant marriage and he had too much stress and not enough time in his life to relax. If he wasn't careful his life would implode in the worst possible way. He stood there nervously for a moment, and then he spoke. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“My name is Greg Lestrade. I'm a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard.”

“I surmised as much,” he said. “What do you want?”

He blinked slightly. “I thought I could use your expertise,” he said. “I have a case and I can't make heads or tails of it. And I've read about what you did when you were a child.”

“I don't do that anymore,” he said, turning back to his microscope. Truth be told, in his spare time he still studied the things that were involved in criminology, sharpening skills that had been dormant for a few years. He could probably do whatever this DI Lestrade asked, but he wasn't sure it would be worth it to go back to that life.

“It has to do with James Moriarty,” he said quietly.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head back up. He had sat in the audience during the trial, before and after he had been called on to testify. The man had almost gotten away with murder because some people were incredulous that a child could have cracked the case. But in the end Moriarty had been convicted of murder and locked up for the rest of his teenage years, and then later he committed another crime and was now in prison for the rest of his life. Sherlock had often wondered what might have happened if he had not been caught so early on. “Go on,” he said after a moment.

“There was a man who died, in a way quite similarly to Carl Powers, on the anniversary of his death. We caught the man who did it, but he said there would be more murders, that there would be more people following Moriarty's example. We think Moriarty is engineering all of this from his prison cell, but he doesn't have any visitors and he has no connections to the outside world, as far as we can tell. And now there's been another murder and I want to know if it's connected and how he's doing this. This murder is a lot more complicated.”

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes as he debated something in his head. He had been approached by Scotland Yard a few times in the past and he had always turned them down. He had stepped away from that life and he wanted to keep his past as his past. But if Moriarty really was engineering things from his prison cell there was always the chance Moriarty could send someone after him as punishment for getting him locked up. He weighed his options carefully and then came to a decision. “All right. I will consult, but only on this case, and only because there might be a risk to my own life.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said gratefully. “The body is here at the hospital already. I asked the pathologist not to do the autopsy quite yet, so you could observe it. And the crime scene is still closed off, if you want to take a look.”

Sherlock nodded and stood up, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and fixing the cuffs. Then he went to the pegs on the wall and took his suit jacket off of it, slipping it on. He got his coat next and put that on as well. “Let's head down to the basement.”

Lestrade opened the door again and the two of them made their way to the lift that would take them down to the basement. He knew who Molly Hooper was, having seen her the few times he would be out among the doctors at the hospital. He didn't know much about her and hadn't been inclined to learn, but he supposed he would learn about her now. They made it down to the basement and went into the morgue. There was a body on the table but no one was there. Lestrade cleared his throat after a moment, but still there wasn't a response. “Dr. Hooper?” he said finally.

The office door opened up quickly. “Oh! I wasn't expecting you so soon,” Molly said as she came out of the office. Her hair was in a loose bun and a strand had slipped out of it. “Give me a moment, all right? I was just trying to get my hair to stay back again. I can't do autopsies with it in my face.”

“Take your time,” Sherlock murmured, watching her. She pulled her hair out of the elastic band it was in and then pulled it back, taking the elastic band and securing it all in a ponytail. As she did that he did his own deductions about her. She seemed to be a decent person, he thought after learning what he could from studying her. That was a plus in any dealings he might have with her.

She finished and she looked at Lestrade, giving him a wide smile. “Sorry about that.”

“It's all right,” Lestrade said with a grin. “Dr. Hooper, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

She turned that smile to Sherlock and extended her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said.

He shook her hand. “Likewise,” he replied.

She let go of his hand after a moment. “This is your victim,” she said, nodding towards the table. She went to the table and the two men followed, and when they got there she pulled the sheet off of the victim. “I haven't touched him at all aside from getting him out of the body bag and putting the sheet on him. He's in almost exactly the same state he was found in, other than what your crime scene people got off the body.”

“May I?” Sherlock asked, looking at her.

She nodded. “Of course.”

He moved closer to the body, looking at it closely. After a few minutes he looked at Molly. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“I do,” she said with a nod. She went to a table and got one for him, bringing it over.

He took it from her and went back to studying the body. Finally he handed it back to her. “May I observe the autopsy?” he asked her.

She thought for a moment. “If you think you can learn something I don't see a problem with that.”

He nodded and then turned to Lestrade. “Will the crime scene keep for a bit?”

“Yeah. When this is over I can come back and get you and we can head over there.” He reached into his pocket and handed Sherlock a card. “That's my number. Call me when she's finished and I'll be back as quickly as I can.”

“All right,” he replied. Lestrade turned and left at that point, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. “I'll try and be unobtrusive,” he told her.

“Are you at all squeamish?” she asked. He shook his head. “Well, if you feel like you're going to be sick there's a rubbish bin in the corner over there.” She pointed behind him to his left.

“I saw many gruesome photographs when I was a child,” he said quietly. “And I've been to my fair share of crime scenes while the body was still there.”

“What kind of life have you had?” she asked, surprised.

He was quiet. “You didn't recognize my name?” he asked after a moment.

“No. Should I have?”

“When I was a child I solved a murder. For nine years I worked as an unofficial consultant for Scotland Yard. I stopped when I was seventeen.”

She thought for a moment, then her eyes widened. “You were the child prodigy? That was _you_?”

He nodded. “Yes, that was me.”

“You're the reason I became a pathologist,” she said with a smile as she began to undress the body, taking off the man's shoes and depositing them in an evidence bag. His eyes widened with surprise as she chuckled. “I was fascinated with the idea that people could help solve murders, even at a young age. I had forgotten your name, though.”

“I think most people have,” he said with a slight smile. “I prefer that.”

“Why did you stop?” she asked.

“A few reasons. Mostly it was because I was living a life I really didn't want to live.” He shrugged slightly. “I took time away and haven't looked back since. This is only the second time I've consulted for the police since I stopped.”

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “Well, that makes sense.” She looked up and motioned for him to come closer. “You should probably be here to observe more closely.”

“You have a valid point,” he said as he moved closer. They stayed quiet as she unbuttoned the man's shirt. As more buttons were opened he noticed her eyes were widening. “Those are a lot of fresh tattoos,” he remarked.

“I wonder how many he has?” she asked, finishing unbuttoning the man's shirt. “Could you help me get this off?”

“All right,” he said with a nod.

“Go put some gloves on,” she said, nodding behind her to the table where she had gotten the magnifying glass. “They're back there.”

He left the table and after a moment took off his coat. “Where can I put my coat?” he asked.

“Go into my office and hang it on one of the pegs.” He went into her office and did that, then went back to the table and put on a pair of gloves. He joined her back at the body and lifted the man's torso up. She got the shirt off and they saw more tattoos covering his entire back. “I think we're going to find his entire body is covered in these tattoos,” she said after a moment, looking over at him.

“I think we will as well,” he said. “Let's finish getting him stripped down and find out for sure.” She nodded and they finished getting the man undressed. Sure enough, there were tattoos covering every inch of skin. Sherlock could tell they had been done before the man died because they had still been in various healing stages. “Most of these are only three weeks old at most,” he said.

“You can tell how long he's had the tattoos?” she asked, slightly surprised.

“I have one of my own,” he said with a slight shrug. “I remembered what it looked like after three weeks, and this is just about right. Did the victim have a name?”

She nodded, moving away from the body to go to her clipboard. She looked at the sheet of paper on top. “Augustus Petersen,” she said before looking up at him.

“We need to find out everything we can about him,” he said.

“Let me take photos of all of these tattoos and then I can start the autopsy,” she said. “I just need to get my camera.” She left the room and went back to her office, and then came back out with a camera. “I'm going to need your help.”

“All right.” She began directing him on what to do, and he did everything she said. Soon there were at least seventy-five pictures of each of the tattoos. He had said she could take photos of them in groups but she had insisted on doing each one individually as well. He had to admit, he was glad she was being thorough. As soon as she was done she set her camera aside and began to perform the autopsy, narrating her findings into a recorder. He watched and listened, and an hour later she was done. “You are quite good at this,” he remarked as she began to sew the man back up.

“I try to be,” she said with a grin. “I have a spare thumb drive in the office. I'll download the photos to my computer and then upload them to the drive for you and Detective Inspector Lestrade. I mean, they're probably very important.”

“I imagine they are,” he said with a nod.

She finished up after a moment and looked at him. “You know, I expected more of an ego, once I realized who you really were. I mean, with everything that happened when you were young.”

“I got reminded of a few things when I was a teenager that knocked me down a few pegs,” he said. “I suppose if things had gone differently I'd have an ego the size of a house. Or possibly a small planet.”

She chuckled slightly. “Well, it was nice working with you today. If you go back to doing this more often, maybe we can do it again.”

“Perhaps,” he said with a nod. “Though I do spend a lot of time at this hospital regardless.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“I'm usually upstairs in one of the labs when I'm not working on any official projects. My regular profession is a research scientist, specializing in chemistry. Though I do have a vast knowledge of biology as well.”

“That's actually quite fascinating,” she said with a smile. “Maybe one day I'll go upstairs and pay you a visit.”

“I think I would like that,” he said with a faint smile of his own.

“Let me go get you the photographs,” she said, stripping off her gloves and depositing them in a medical waste container. He did the same and then followed her into her office, watching her plug the USB cord at her computer into her camera. It took her a few minutes, but soon she had all the photos on a flash drive and she handed it to him. “Here they are. Let me know how things turn out, all right?”

He nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

“Thank you for your assistance today,” she said with a smile.

He turned at that point and left her office, making his way out of the morgue. He pulled out his phone, ready to call Lestrade. After a moment he realized that he had missed this a lot, the thrill of working on a case. The empty space inside him seemed filled right now, and that surprised him. But he pushed the thoughts away for the moment, concentrating on the task at hand. He could deal with these thoughts later. For now, he had to figure out this case and see if he could stop whatever it was that the killer was planning to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

He had visited the crime scene with Lestrade after sharing the photographs of the victim's body. Lestrade had his crime scene technicians give Sherlock copies of all the photos from the body and all the photographs they had taken from the crime scene. Molly had contacted Lestrade with the official autopsy results as well as the results of the blood work, and she said if Sherlock wanted a copy he could come by and pick one up.

An hour later he was at home, looking at all of the information he had. He was sitting at the table, but there was so much information that he was having trouble sorting it all. Finally, after ten minutes of frustration he hung his head. There had to be a way he could see all of it at once. He sighed after a moment and turned to look out the window. Then he glanced at the wall nearby and really looked at it. It was large and completely empty. The more he thought about it the more an idea came to him. He went downstairs to the other part of the home and knocked on the door. Hopefully his landlady was home. “Mrs. Hudson?” he asked after a moment.

“Coming, dear,” she said, and after a moment she opened the door. She gave him a smile. “Do you need something?”

“I need something to hang up photographs and things on a wall,” he said. “Temporarily, I mean. So nothing like nails.”

She frowned. “Why on earth would you want to do that?” she asked after a moment.

“I'm consulting on a case for Scotland Yard,” he said. He knew Mrs. Hudson knew what he was capable of; she was the only person he had used his skills for since he was a teenager because she had been a family friend and asked for his help. He had ensured her husband received the death penalty a few years back, and she had offered him up a reduced rent as thanks. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone. “I have over a hundred photographs to look at and I want them all up someplace where I can see them at once.”

“I don't think I have that many thumbtacks, but that's what I would use,” she said thoughtfully.

He gave her a grin. “So I have your permission?”

“Of course you do, dear,” she said with a chuckle. “I think I can stand a hundred little holes in my wall.”

“Thank you,” he said with a slightly wider grin.

She gave him a fond smile. “It's been a long time since I've seen you smile, Sherlock. Years and years. You must have missed doing this more than you realized.”

“I suppose I have,” he said.

“What type of case is it, if I might ask?”

“A homicide,” he replied. “It might be connected to the case I solved when I was eight.”

“You mean that dreadful man who killed the boy at the pool?” He nodded. “I thought he was locked up in prison somewhere.”

“He is, but he could be orchestrating things from his cell,” Sherlock replied. “The case took an interesting turn when the autopsy was performed. The victim was covered head to toe in fresh tattoos.”

“That does sound strange,” she said with a nod. “Well, I'm sure you'll crack it. You're smarter than a dozen Detective Inspectors. You'll solve it soon enough.”

“I'm glad you have faith in me,” he said. He gave her one last grin and made his way back upstairs and out the door. He purchased the thumbtacks and then went home and hung everything up on the wall except the autopsy reports. He was still studying his wall four hours later when Mrs. Hudson came in. He didn't realize she was there until she cleared her throat. “Yes?” he asked, turning to face her.

“Have you been staring at that wall for the last five hours?” she asked.

“Only the last four, I think,” he said with a frown as he checked his watch.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

He shook his head. “I skipped breakfast and haven't had lunch.”

“Eat something, Sherlock. You always do take such poor care of yourself when you get heavily involved in something.”

He nodded, moving over to his refrigerator. He opened it and frowned. “I think I need food that hasn't gone bad.”

She shook her head, smiling at him fondly. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Make sure I don't starve?”

She chuckled. “I'd say call for take-out. Something that will last you through supper as well.”

“I suppose that would be a good idea.” He thought for a moment. What he really needed just as much as food was a fresh set of eyes to look at his wall. “Mrs. Hudson, could you help me a moment?”

“Do you want my opinion on your case?” she asked warily. “Because I don't really think I want to look at pictures of a dead man.”

“I don't know who else to ask,” he said with a sigh.

She moved over to him. “As long as I don't have to look at anything gruesome.”

He nodded. She went over to the wall and looked at the photographs. “These tattoos,” she said quietly after ten minutes. “I think you have them in the wrong order.”

“Oh?” he asked, surprised. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, I think they're trying to tell a story. I can't tell what type of story, but I think it's something you should think about.” She looked over at him. “I don't have to look at them anymore, do I?”

“No,” he said. “Thank you immensely for your help.”

“You're welcome,” she said with a smile. “And remember what I said. Get some food inside you before you die of hunger.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” She left the room and he went to his phone. When he had gotten the autopsy results from Molly she had given him her phone number, just in case he had any more questions. She had said it would be easier to reach her on her mobile than the office phone. He hoped she picked up, he thought as he pulled up her contact and hit send.

“Hello?” she asked after three rings.

“Molly? This is Sherlock,” he said.

“Oh! I thought I had gotten your phone number. I guess I hadn't. How can I help you?”

“Can you come to my home and help me rearrange the photographs you took of the tattoos? Someone pointed out they might be trying to tell a story, but I'm not sure where some of the photographs were taken.”

“I can do that. Let me take a few shots that are farther away for reference. Give me two hours or so?”

“All right. Thank you,” he said. Then he paused. “Have you eaten?”

“No, not for a few hours. Why?”

“I can have food here when you get close. It's the least I can do for you coming all the way here.”

“It's all right. I can pick up something on the way.”

“I insist,” he said. “I was thinking Chinese food.”

“If you're sure. I like shrimp lo mein and eggrolls. I can call you when I'm a half hour away, if you want.”

“I'll have the food here by then. I'm at 221B Baker Street.”

“Okay. I'll see you in a few hours, then.” She hung up and he lowered his phone. After a moment he went to his violin case and picked up the instrument. He had found when he needed to think violin music soothed him. He was quite good at playing the violin, and he found that it had been one of the few things he had enjoyed in his life. As he played he blocked out the thoughts he had, concentrating instead on his technique and the notes coming from the instrument. He lost track of time until he heard someone knock on the door of the sitting room. He turned and saw Molly there, standing a bit nervously. “Your landlady was just coming back. She let me in.”

“I'm sorry I ignored the door,” he said, lowering his violin. “I lose track of time when I play. I also tend to ignore my mobile, so I apologize for not having food.”

“Well, it didn't take me as long as I thought it would,” she said. “It's only been an hour and a half.”

“I'll go place our orders now,” he said, putting his violin back in its case. He went over for his phone and saw that she had called him twice. He went into the kitchen and looked at the restaurant menus and called the closest one, placing their orders. When he was done he saw she had pulled out some photographs and placed them on the table. “It should be here in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.” She laid down another photograph. “So these are shots of more of the body at once,” she said as she put down another one. “I took multiple ones that were farther back than the ones I had included in the photos you already had. Sorry if they aren't too clear.”

He moved over to look at them. “No, these will suffice.” He studied them. She had put them in the shape of the man's body, and he walked from one side of the table to the other. “I need to rearrange my wall,” he said after a moment.

“Your wall?” she asked with a frown. He pointed and she looked at it. “That's an interesting approach.”

“I believe the term used is case wall,” he said, going over to the sofa and standing on it, beginning to take the tattoo photographs down. “I never used to use this technique as a child. I used to spread everything out on the floor.”

“There's too much information for this case to do that,” she said thoughtfully.

“Precisely.” He worked on taking the photos down for a few more minutes, and then with her help he arranged them in the order they were on the body. By the time they were finished their food had arrived. He paid for it and the two of them simply got forks and began to eat out of the containers, studying the wall. “Do you see a story like I do?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

“I do,” she said with a nod. “I think the killer is telling us about his life.”

“I think he is as well. It was not a very pleasant life, either.” He went back and stood on the sofa, gesturing to the photographs of the front of the victim. “Abusive childhood, neglectful parents, isolation from his peers. That's all in arms and torso.”

She moved closer as well. “It appears as though the story on the front of his legs tells how he got into killing, about how it gave him an escape from what he considered the worst aspects of his life.”

“And then the back of our victim tells about the other people he's killed,” he said as he walked along the sofa.

“He's killed a lot of people,” she said, her eyes wide.

“We have a serial killer on our hands,” he said with a frown.

“But what about these tattoos?” she asked, using her own fork to point to ones on his legs. “I don't think these are old victims.”

He moved over to that side of the sofa and squatted down. “I think this is his cry for help,” he said after a moment. “He's trying to tell us what he plans on doing next in hopes we will stop him.”

“But why would he want us to stop him?” she asked as he got off the sofa. “I mean, serial killers take pleasure from killing their victims, right?”

“Usually,” he said. “Or else they find a cathartic release.”

“So maybe he doesn't get a release from it anymore?” she said, tilting her head slightly as she looked at the photographs.

“Perhaps,” he replied with a nod. “I just need to figure out what they mean.”

“Well, I can stay and help as long as you need me to,” she said, turning to look at him. “I've got the day off tomorrow so it doesn't matter what time I actually get to sleep.”

“I appreciate that,” he said with a small smile. He nodded towards the table and then sat down. She did the same when she got to it. “I am not used to having help doing this. When I was younger the Detective Inspectors all expected me to solve the cases for them, and to do it on my own.”

“And I'm sure they took all the credit for it,” she said wryly.

“Of course they did. I mean, after a while, of course. The idea that a young child can solve crimes better than a seasoned detective makes Scotland Yard look very bad if it keeps up for some time.” He had some more of his food. “When Scotland Yard decided I was embarrassing them it became taboo to ask for my help, at least officially. So unofficially I had people clamoring for my time and energy.”

“What did you get out of the arrangement?” she asked before eating more of her own food.

“A thrill, I suppose. And immense satisfaction that I was smarter than a room full of brilliant detectives, and certainly smarter than the criminals I helped catch. I had quite a bit of an ego when I was younger.”

“Well, solving a murder at eight would do that to just about anyone,” she said thoughtfully. “Is the man who did it still in jail?”

He nodded. “He was a minor at the time so he wasn't tried as an adult, but before he was to be released he killed someone else and this time he was tried as an adult. He'll be in prison for the rest of his life. I feel safer because of that, or at least I did until today. If he really is orchestrating these killings from prison I'm not entirely sure how safe I will be.”

“Does it feel strange going back to doing this?” she asked. “I mean, I understand you've been forced to do it today, but I suppose what I want to know is if you'd have gone back to it eventually.”

He thought about it for a moment. “I probably wouldn't have. When I was young I had that thrill solving the cases. I looked at it as a big game, where I got to prove just how smart I was. But after a while the thrill wore off and I wanted more of a normal life, or at least as normal as I could get. When I couldn't get that I turned to other means to stay numb and escape.”

“Drugs?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “That wasn't a very good time for me, the year I got addicted to heroin. I almost lost my life, towards the end. I shot myself up with too much, and if my father hadn't found me I would have died.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Well, I suppose it was a blessing in disguise. I got shipped off to rehab when I was informed that if I didn't I would be cut off from my family. Not that we're particularly close, but I know having them on my side is better than being on my own completely.” He took another bite of his food. “You know, you're learning an awful lot about me and I know nothing about you.”

She grinned at him. “My life hasn't been nearly as eventful. I grew up in a small village away from London, and I had a relatively normal childhood. My father died when I was a teenager, but my mum was strong for all of us. He'd left us each a bit of money, and I used mine to survive here in London while I went to university. I'd wanted to be a doctor from a young age, and when I got into university I discovered pathology and decided that was how I wanted to make my living because it combined being a doctor with helping put bad people in jail. And I've been doing it ever since.”

“You have brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“Two sisters, one older and one younger. We're fairly close, I think. You?”

“An older brother. We aren't particularly close,” he said with a slight shrug. “He's involved in the government. I suppose you could say he's got power, but I know there are people with far more power than he has.”

“That must make family reunions interesting,” she said, taking another bite of her food.

“We try and avoid each other more than see each other.” He looked over at her intently. “I find you to be...interesting.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” she asked with an amused smile.

“It was intended that way,” he said. “I'm sorry if it didn't come across as one.”

“No, it's all right,” she said. “I thought it was meant as one.”

“I don't have any friends, aside from Mrs. Hudson. I don't interact with people very much if I can help it. I prefer to be alone.”

“That must be a hard life,” she said after a moment.

“It can be,” he said with a nod. “But I find being alone keeps me safer.”

She speared one of her shrimp and ate it. “You could probably do with a friend or two,” she said when she was done chewing. “I wouldn't mind being one, I don't think.”

“I think I would like to have you as a friend,” he said, giving her a small grin.

“Well, let's finish solving the puzzle of what those last tattoos mean, and then we can figure out exactly what you expect out of your friends,” she said with a grin of her own. “And then we'll see if I still want to be friends.”

“You'll find I'm not very demanding. Or at least I hope I'm not.” He looked in his carton and saw it was nearly empty. “I apologize in advance if I turn out to be.”

“Well, I'm willing to forgive a lot,” she said with a chuckle. “I'm almost finished, and then we can go back to the case, all right?”

“All right,” he said with a nod. Her smile widened and he found his did as well. It might be nice to have a friend, he realized. At the very least, it was good to have someone helping him with this case. He hoped that if he continued to do this perhaps he could continue to receive her help. If they were friends, perhaps he could, and he found that thought pleased him greatly.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly had stayed late into the night but they still couldn't make heads or tails of what those last tattoos had meant. Sherlock had thought about asking Lestrade for the digital files of the last ten tattoos so he could study them more closely. There had to be something he was missing, and he was working under some invisible timer. At some point the killer was going to strike again, and if he didn't figure out the message those tattoos were trying to send someone else could lose their life. This wasn't the first time he had helped to catch a serial killer in his life, and he knew time was of the essence.

He tried valiantly to sleep that night but rest was short lived. He hadn't had a night like this in a long time, not since he was a boy. This was one aspect of this lifestyle he certainly didn't miss. So at three in the morning he began to make himself a large pot of coffee and went back to staring at his wall. He pulled then ten photographs off the wall and put them on the table when he found he wanted a closer look, and he brought out his pocket magnifier. The camera Molly had used had taken good photographs, but if he had the digital copies he could zoom in more. He had the feeling viewing the photos under magnification would hold the key to solving this murder.

By five in the morning he'd drank the entire pot of coffee and was making a second one. He knew he would be jittery from all the caffeine later but for now he needed it. As his second pot of coffee brewed he went back through the new crime scene lab results that had been discovered after Molly had come over. Lestrade had dropped off a copy but he was so focused on the tattoos and the story they told he had ignored them. He flipped through the pages, trying to see if there was something he could use. He almost read right past the part about the trace evidence found on the victim's clothes before he stopped reading. After a moment he pulled two of the photographs closer to him, looking at them intently. Then he had an epiphany. He might not know what message the killer was trying to send, but he was fairly sure he knew where the man had been taken while the killer had tattooed him.

He pulled over his laptop and began to look at the first two tattoos he had been trying to decipher before going on the internet and looking at pictures he found there. His eyes darted from photographs to computer screen. Within forty minutes, though, he began to get frustrated. He knew exactly what he needed but he couldn't find the images on the internet. It was still too early in the morning to rouse Lestrade, but it might not be too early for someone else. He _hated_ the idea of involving his brother in this, but he needed high quality satellite photos and ground level surveillance photos to narrow down the site and his brother could obtain them for him. With a sigh he went to his bedroom and got his mobile, pulling up his brother's contact. He hesitated for a moment, then hit send.

It rang twice before it was answered. “This is quite early, even for you, dear brother,” Mycroft Holmes drawled.

Sherlock scowled slightly. “I need your help,” he said quietly.

“I'm assuming this has to do with the homicide case you are helping with,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock wasn't at all surprised that his brother knew about the case. He was fairly sure Mycroft had been spying on him since he got out of rehab. Possibly earlier, knowing his brother. “Yes. I need satellite and surveillance images from the warehouses by the river, and I can't find them anywhere else. And it's too early to wake up the Detective Inspector I'm helping.”

“But not too early to call me,” Mycroft pointed out.

“You were already awake, so what does it matter?” Sherlock asked, beginning to get irritated. “I know you're up at four AM every day. And it's not as though you're not somewhere near your computer.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “You know me too well, Sherlock.”

“Of course I do. You're a creature of habit and you made me live with you once I got out of rehab until I left to go travel.”

“Which is one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made,” Mycroft replied. “You and I are like oil and an open flame. We shouldn't be mixed.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said sourly. “Mycroft, the killer left a message. I need those images to help stop another murder. You're going to give them to me because despite what you try and project to the world you are actually a decent man.”

“The tattoos on the dead man's body.”

“Exactly. We figured out most of them, but there were ten that we think was a specific message from the killer. The first two will tell me where he had the victim while he tattooed him. But I _need_ those images.”

“You will owe me a favor for my assistance,” Mycroft said.

“Fine. Will you give me the photographs?” Sherlock asked.

“I will. Check your e-mail in twenty minutes. I will send the ones taken from yesterday afternoon so you can see the buildings clearly.” He paused. “I never thought you would go back to this life of solving homicide cases for Scotland Yard.”

“Well, this is a one-time thing, I think.”

“But you're not sure.”

Sherlock paused. He didn't want to tell his brother that the thrill he'd experienced as a young child was back, that the part of him that felt like something that had been missing was filled right now. His brother didn't need to know and he probably wouldn't care anyway. “No, I'm not.”

“No backsliding,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Are you talking about the drugs?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “It's been nearly twenty years since I used any drug. Do you honestly think going back to this would cause me to go back to using them? If you do, you're an idiot.”

“Still. The warning given to you all those years ago still holds true. Go back to using drugs and you're cut off from the family. And right now, you could use any advantage you can get if you do decide to re-establish yourself as a consultant. A brother with power in the government would be a very handy thing to have.”

“You are an absolute arse,” Sherlock said.

“But I'm right,” Mycroft said with a hint of smugness.

“I'll concede that having connections within the government will be beneficial. But I'm going to try my best not to ask for your help. If I go back to doing this I'm going to do it on my own as much as possible.”

“So why invite the pathologist to your home for her assistance?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock could tell his brother was enjoying needling him, and normally he wouldn't rise to the bait but this morning was not his best morning. “Have you tapped my phone and bugged my home as well, Mycroft? Because I know you've been spying on me for years. Do you know every facet of my life now?”

“I know enough,” Mycroft said evasively.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “There are times I really hate you,” he said finally.

“I am well aware of that. Now let me off the phone so I can get you the photographs you so desperately need.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said in a huff, hanging up on his brother before Mycroft could hang up on him. He got up out of his chair and went to the coffeemaker, roughly pulling the pot out from under the drip. He stared at the pot for a few minutes as he composed himself, then poured himself another cup of coffee. He didn't want to sit in his chair and refresh his email every few minutes as he waited for the images, so he stayed in the kitchen and rummaged around for something to eat. He realized after five minutes that he really did need to buy some more food. He found something that would satisfy him for now and prepared it. Finally he went back to his computer and saw a message from his brother. At least his brother could be counted on to do things in the exact time frame he stated.

He began to look over each of the images, matching up the satellite images with the surveillance images. After forty-five minutes he felt a wide grin spread across his face. He had found the warehouse from the first two tattoos. He glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly seven in the morning. If Lestrade wasn't already awake he didn't think it was too early now. He had put Lestrade's contact information in his phone and pulled up the contact, dialing him soon afterward. Lestrade picked up after four rings. “Sherlock?” he asked, the question ending on a yawn. “It's early. What do you want?”

“I know where the killer held the victim while he tattooed him,” he said, getting up and pacing slightly. “It's at one of the warehouses down by the river. I can lead you directly to it.”

“How?” Lestrade asked, sounding slightly more intrigued.

“I owe someone a favor, but I got access to satellite images and surveillance photographs of all the warehouses in the only area it could be based on the samples the crime lab took from his clothing. The killer tattooed an aerial view as the first tattoo and a street level view as the second. I'm hoping if I see where the man was held I can decipher the last eight tattoos.”

“I need coffee and food first, before I come get you. I'm assuming the warehouse is abandoned?”

“You need a warrant if it isn't,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Exactly. If you have an address for the specific warehouse I can have someone find out before I pick you up.” He paused. “I _am_ picking you up, right? Because I don't feel like getting lost in that part of town.”

“That's fine. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Give me a moment.” There was a pause and Sherlock could hear some faint rustling on the other end of the conversation, then finally it stopped. “Give it to me,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock rattled off an address. “How quickly can you be here?”

“An hour?” Lestrade said. “Less if I pick up coffee and food on the way.”

“Try and get here faster. I don't know how much time we have left.”

“Fine,” Lestrade said. “What's your address?”

“221B Baker Street,” he replied. “I'll be ready in a half hour.”

“How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked. “Why?”

“Because I'll pick you up a cup as well, unless you don't want some.”

He looked at the lukewarm cup he'd poured while he was waiting for his brother's e-mail. Hot coffee would be so much better. “Two sugars,” he said.

“Then I'll have a cup for you too. I'll text you when I'm outside.” Lestrade hung up at that point and Sherlock looked at his phone. He wasn't exactly used to people being nice to him. The thing about being antisocial was you pushed everyone away before you let anyone even attempt to get close. And within twenty-four hours he'd managed to start developing one friendship and he was not being his normal standoffish self with another person. Perhaps it was the feeling that something in his life wasn't missing anymore that was letting him be open. One day he might wonder what would have happened if he'd kept doing this, but for right now he had other things to think about.

He went to his room and got dressed, then went to the sitting room and sat down in his chair. He was very anxious right now. For all he knew they would get to the warehouse and there would be another victim there, already dead or in the process of being killed. He didn't want to think about that. Most of the time he consulted he'd managed to stop any serial killers before they claimed another victim, but once or twice there had been another victim before he was able to solve the case. He had tried to brush off those failures as the price that was paid to have all the evidence needed to convict, as the DIs at the Yard had kept pushing him for, but knowing it had been his fault that someone else had died had been a heavy thought that a child didn't need to think, and yet he had anyway.

Forty minutes later he got a text message. He went to his coat rack and grabbed his coat, putting it on quickly. He made his way outside, locking up behind him, then went around to the passenger side of Lestrade's vehicle and got it. Lestrade picked up a large paper cup from the beverage holder and handed it to him. “Two sugars,” he said.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied with a nod. Lestrade looked at a slip of paper he had and keyed in the first address he had been given, and once the route was set he pulled away from the curb. “Is the warehouse abandoned?”

Lestrade nodded. “There was a fire in the place and the structure of that warehouse was compromised, so the company who owned it declared it a total loss. No one patrols it, so someone could easily take a part of it to themselves for complete privacy. We can go in without a warrant.” He looked over at Sherlock briefly. “Do you know how to use a gun?”

He nodded. “It's been quite a few years, but I did practice. Why?”

“Because we're going in without anyone backing us up. I'd feel safer if we both had a gun. Just try not to shoot me, all right?” He flashed Sherlock a quick grin before turning back to the road.

“My aim was quite good when I was younger,” Sherlock said with his own faintly amused grin.

“How long ago was the last time you used a gun?”

“Five years ago, give or take,” Sherlock said after a moment's thought. “When I had been a child one of the DIs had needed my opinion on a case that involved guns. I enjoyed it, so my father taught me how to shoot. When I get particularly stressed I will occasionally go to a shooting range for an hour or so.”

“What do you do for a living, anyway?” Lestrade asked.

“I am a research scientist,” Sherlock said after he took a sip of coffee. “I usually tend to specialize in things involving chemistry, but I also have a vast amount of knowledge regarding biology. I had a dual major degree when I graduated from university.”

“That's quite impressive,” Lestrade said with a nod. “I had a hard enough time concentrating on my one major.”

Sherlock shrugged slightly. “A lot of the things I had studied when I was younger to help consult on cases were either related to chemistry or biology, so I had a fair bit of knowledge before I ever started university, more than the average student. I took the occasional course in softer sciences, such as psychology, but generally I concentrated on those two subjects as my core sciences.”

“Did you study anything related to criminology?” Lestrade asked.

“One or two courses. But I was trying to keep a low profile and the professors constantly tried to get me to show just how much knowledge I actually had, and after a few courses I realized if I wanted to fully escape my old life I had to avoid anything related to it. I've studied subjects since then, for my own pleasure, but generally I haven't had any formal lessons on anything relating to criminal justice in my life.” Sherlock had some more of his coffee. “Perhaps one day I might attempt to see what that course of study could offer me.”

“I think if you did that you'd be an even better consultant,” Lestrade said. “But you're already doing a bang-up job on this case. I saw the crime scene and other than knowing it was staged I couldn't get anything from it. You got more information in thirty minutes than my crime scene team had in three hours.”

“That was usually the way I worked,” he replied. “Not that I went to crime scenes often. I helped work over two hundred cases in the years I consulted. Many people had issues with seeing a young child at such gruesome scenes. But the harder cases worked best if I actually saw the crime scenes. Preferably if the body or bodies were still there.”

“How many did you go to in the time you were consulting?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “More than forty but less than fifty. Most of them were when I was a teenager, even though no one at the Yard was supposed to ask for my help. I was snuck onto the crime scenes after the technicians had left but before the body was taken away. When I was a young child most people thought I didn't need to see the realities of a homicide, just the images of it.”

Lestrade looked confused for a moment. “What do you mean?”

He paused, trying to figure out how to phrase what he meant. “Seeing a photograph just gives you the images. But get to a scene early enough and you can smell the blood. Get there later and sometimes you smell decomposition, and you can taste it in your mouth because it's so strong in the air. And seeing the body up close lets you notice things that aren't apparent after an autopsy has been performed. So as I got older many of the Detective Inspectors decided I would get more from a scene if I observed it in as fresh a state as I could.”

Lestrade's jaw was hanging slightly. “I had no idea about that. No one I knew who worked at the Yard when you were consulting there mentioned that when I asked them about you,” he said quietly when he finally spoke. “You really didn't have a typical childhood, did you?”

“No, I did not,” he said quietly.

“No wonder you walked away from it. I would have done the same thing.” Lestrade glanced at him for a moment. “Why did you agree to help me with this case? Was it because of the connection to Moriarty?”

Sherlock nodded. “If he really is trying to extend his reach to the outside of his prison cell my life is in danger. If it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have been in the detention facility when he killed the second time and then he wouldn't have been locked up for life as a result. I can imagine there's a lot of anger and resentment towards me on his end. I ruined his future.”

“No, he ruined his own future the minute he committed that first murder,” Lestrade said adamantly. “You just made sure he was locked up for it.”

“He would have been out after a few years, though,” Sherlock pointed out. “It's only because he committed the second murder and they decided to try him as an adult that time that he's still in prison. For all I know he would have come after me personally when he got out and I would not have had a teenage life, much less an adult one.”

“And I take it that's something you think about?”

“Not as much as I did when I was younger but yes, it still crosses my mind occasionally.” He had some more of his coffee. “I rather hope there isn't some elaborate plan being hatched out of his cell. I don't want to have him any more involved in my life than he already is.”

“Somehow I get the feeling we won't be that lucky,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“I get the feeling you're right,” Sherlock said with a nod.

The two men lapsed into silence as they made their way to their destination. When they got out Sherlock saw that the tattoo depiction of the street level view was just as detailed as the real thing, down to the broken windows and blackened exterior around the windows. Sherlock got out as Lestrade unlocked and opened his glove compartment. He pulled out a gun and checked it before handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock checked it again before watching Lestrade repeat his actions with a second gun. “Let's stick close to each other,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded. The two of them approached the metal door. It was partially open, with just enough space for the two of them to slip inside without having to open it any wider. Lestrade pulled out a pocket torch and turned it on, shining the light in front of them. It appeared to be simply an empty warehouse, Sherlock thought as they walked further inside. After twenty minutes he was beginning to give up hope before they made it to another room. There was a noise inside, the buzzing sound when someone is using a tattoo gun, Sherlock realized. Lestrade put a finger to his lips. He turned off his torch and put it in his pocket before carefully opening the door. The two men quietly entered the room, which was much more brightly lit than the rest of the warehouse. There was a man with a shaved head hovering over a woman on a table. She was bare to the waist, and it appeared he had already started to tattoo her. She wasn't moving at all. Sherlock just hoped she had been drugged and not killed, but considering the other victim had been alive when he was tattooed there was a glimmer of hope.

“Hands where I can see them!” Lestrade called over once they were inside the room and they could take aim.

The man didn't lower his tattoo gun, but he did stop moving. “I see you found me,” he said without turning around.

“Lower the tattoo gun and put your hands where I can see them,” Lestrade said.

He lowered the tattoo gun slowly but didn't turn around. “There's still another story to tell,” he said.

“What story?” Sherlock asked as Lestrade advanced on him.

“Your story,” he said. “The one Moriarty wants to tell you.” He reached over for something else and turned quickly. Sherlock could see it was a gun and it was aimed at Lestrade. Sherlock fired his gun before he thought about it, hitting the man in the shoulder. Lestrade's aim was truer, though, and he hit the man in the chest. The man stumbled into his table, dropping the gun and crashing to the ground. As he fell he began to laugh, the laughter sounding garbled as he coughed up blood.

Sherlock stowed his gun and hurried over to the man. “What story?” he asked, kneeling next to the man and grabbing his blood soaked shirt, pulling him up. “Tell me what the story is.”

The man grinned as he coughed up blood. “Even I don't know the story. He's still deciding what it will be.” He coughed again and after a moment went limp in Sherlock's grip.

Lestrade had gone over to the woman, checking her for a pulse. “She's alive,” he said.

Sherlock dropped the man back down to the floor. He stood up and went over to Lestrade. Both of the woman's upper arms were covered in tattoos down to her elbows, as was the top part of her chest and her breasts. “I need photos of those tattoos,” he said.

Lestrade nodded. “I'll make sure you get them,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the woman. “I need to call for an ambulance and a crime scene team.”

Sherlock nodded, staying by the woman's side as Lestrade left. He did not like the direction this case had taken. He didn't like it one bit. For some reason, many years after the fact, Moriarty was going to pull him into some sort of great game to get his revenge, and he was going to do this whether Sherlock wanted to play or not. The best he could hope for was finding a way to keep everyone else who ended up getting pulled into it alive by the time the game was finished. He just hoped he was able to.


	4. Chapter 4

It took some time, but a week after the events in the warehouse Sherlock made his way to the prison where Moriarty was being housed. No one had especially wanted to let him go, not since they had realized that somehow Moriarty was controlling people on the outside from his cell. Immediately after the killer had died and the prison officials had been alerted that Moriarty was behind two different murders they had moved him to solitary confinement in the hopes that it would contain him. But Sherlock needed to face him, needed to have this conversation with him in person.

He was taken to a room with a table, two chairs and two doors. He was told to sit down in one and to wait. He was there for twenty minutes when the door opposite of the one he had entered opened up. Two prison guards led James Moriarty into the room, and they sat him down in the chair opposite from Sherlock. One of them shackled his feet to the ring on the floor while the other did the same to his hands and the ring on the table. Then they moved away from him and waited behind him. He looked over at Sherlock and grinned. “You turned out well, despite everything,” Moriarty said after a moment, giving Sherlock a wide grin. “You certainly look more handsome than I expected when I saw you at my trial.”

“I can't say the same for you,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms and staring at the man he had put behind bars all those years ago.

“You know, prison will change a man,” he said with a shrug. “It gives him a lot of time to think and to plan. A man can do a lot with unlimited time on his hands and nothing to distract him.”

Sherlock uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “What is this game you have me playing, Moriarty? What is this story you want to tell?”

“Spoilers,” he said, leaning forward as well. “I mean, if you know the ending then where's the fun in reading the story? Or in your case, acting out the story.”

“Tell me,” Sherlock said insistently.

“Don't you wish it could go back to the old days, where you were still cute enough that people might actually do what you say?” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “I mean, there isn't anything much more adorable than an eight-year-old boy who solves murders. It's quite cute, in its own way.”

“If you're just going to stonewall me I'm going to leave and you're going to go back into solitary confinement,” Sherlock said.

“If you really think locking me up for twenty-three hours a day is going to change things you're sorely mistaken,” he said with a smirk. “I've had years to plan for this, Sherlock. This story has been in the works for a long, long time.”

Sherlock's eyes widened. “How long?” he asked.

“Well, since I was seventeen,” he said. “Do you really think I killed that guard because I was angry? I wanted to be locked up in this prison, Sherlock. It was all part of my very big plan.” He leaned back in his seat. “I'm going to get my revenge on you. And even if I don't see it in person, even if they do keep me locked away from the rest of the world for the rest of my life, I'm going to enjoy every minute knowing you're constantly going to be looking over your shoulder. I have a whole group of people out there just waiting to do my bidding, and you'll have no idea how many or when they'll strike or how often they'll make my wishes known. You'll live in fear now.” He grinned at Sherlock, and it was quite a feral grin. “Good luck going back to your old life, Sherlock.” After a moment Sherlock grinned back, and Moriarty blinked. “Why are you smiling?”

“You just told me everything I needed to know,” he replied, standing up.

“I didn't tell you anything!” he snapped.

“Oh, I may not know the details of your plan, but I now know none of these people are going to kill me. And as I didn't have anyone I was close to when you hatched this plan, there won't be friends to go after, since you don't know who they are. So really, this will be quite the challenge, but I find I'm up for it.” He made his way to the door he had entered the room through. “You can take him back now. Our business is finished.”

Moriarty composed himself after a moment, and then he laughed. “Oh, you are good,” he said, shaking his head. “I'll give you that. But, just so you know? Plans can always change.”

Sherlock stilled at the door, but he did not let his posture or demeanor change. “I will protect anyone I choose to hold dear with my life,” he said quietly before opening the door.

“You might just have to!” Moriarty called over as Sherlock stepped outside the room. He shut the door behind him and composed himself for a moment. Then he made his way down the hallway back to the guard station. By the time he was there he was thinking a million thoughts as quickly as his brain would process them. For a moment he was afraid they would overwhelm him. He signed out on the visitor's log and made his way outside the building.

Lestrade was outside his car, leaning against the side. “How did it go?” he asked.

“We're in for a very long endgame,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “He's been planning this for quite a long time.”

“How long?” Lestrade asked.

“The guard he killed? That was all part of his plan. He _wanted_ to be here.” He stood in front of Lestrade, whose jaw was hanging slightly. “Keeping him in solitary confinement is a start, but he's been plotting this for a long time. I honestly have no clue how many people are involved or what acts of violence they're going to commit. It could be a small handful, it could be hundreds.”

“Wonderful,” Lestrade said sourly. Then he looked at Sherlock intently. “Are you going to help solve these crimes?”

He nodded slowly. “It's my fault they're being committed. I should help try and contain the damage. I won't join Scotland Yard, however. I'll work as a consultant. An official one, this time.”

Lestrade nodded. “Then I'll keep you on speed dial.” He nodded to the car behind him. “Any place I can take you right now?”

“St. Bart's,” he said, moving to the other side and getting in as Lestrade did the same on his side. “I need to speak with Molly.”

“All right,” he said, starting the car.

The two men drove away from the prison in silence, and soon Lestrade deposited him at the hospital. He made his way to the morgue, not seeing Molly there. He frowned as he looked around. As far as he knew, she was still supposed to be at work. “Molly?” he called out.

“I'm in the office!” she called back. He made his way to the office, opening the door just in time to see her push a stack of paperwork away from her. She gave him a hopeful look. “Did you get answers?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He's got some sort of game planned that has been in the works for years. And it's going to put a lot of people in danger.”

She sighed. “Wonderful,” she murmured.

“It might be best if we don't become friends,” he said after a moment's pause. “He hadn't planned on making anyone I knew targets, but he implied the plans he has set in place could change at any moment.”

She chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “Is that what you really want?” she asked quietly.

“Not really,” he admitted.

“Then you'll just have to keep me safe. And I'll have to keep myself safe,” she said with a shrug.

“But what if I fail? What if he hurts you while he's playing this game? Or worse?” he pointed out.

“He wants you to live in fear. He wants anyone associated with you to live in fear. And that's not a good way to live. I won't live that way. I _refuse_ to live that way.” She looked at him intently before standing up and coming over to him, hesitantly putting a hand on his arm. “So if I'm not going to be afraid to be friends with you, you shouldn't be afraid about it, either.”

He looked down at her arm. “If you're sure,” he said slowly.

“I am,” she said. When he looked up again she flashed him a smile. “Now I'm off work in twenty minutes. What do you say about getting a bite to eat? I'm starving.”

“I could do that,” he said with a slow grin of his own.

She squeezed his arm. “Then let me finish this paperwork and we can be off,” she said with a nod before moving away from him. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

He moved over to the other chair in the office and sat down as a singular thought overtook his mind. He had tried to warn her, and he had warned Lestrade, but they both wanted to continue to be associated with him. He hoped their decisions didn't come back to bite all of them in the arse, but at the moment he was thankful he had people to help him get through whatever plans Moriarty had put into place. That was infinitely better than going at it alone.


End file.
